


(Relatively) Harmless

by Calculatrice, helloimtrash



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Bonding, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Non-Consensual Gender-Swapping, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, inspired by a Shana_Fujioka prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-03-10 15:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calculatrice/pseuds/Calculatrice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloimtrash/pseuds/helloimtrash
Summary: In which not everything is terrible, and some problems just need a pop of colour - however messy, humiliating and difficult they may be.Honestly, Conan’s life is a goddamn joke.





	1. Electric Blue

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy.

The heist had been messy.

Conan squints at what seems to be a large, slimy, pink block of jello with several arm-shaped holes in it sitting in the middle of the thoroughly trashed hotel lobby.

He’s considering whether he should poke it – it’s called natural curiosity – or leave it be when one of Division Two’s officers taps him on the shoulder. Conan glances up through his bangs, instinctively making sure his wide-eyed, childish expression is pasted on. The agent, a freckled man with cropped brown hair, immediately smiles at him in response. Impressive – considering the bright red pinch mark on the man’s cheek, Conan can’t help but preen a little.

“Hey kid, you might want to get yourself cleaned up before you head home,” the man says, chuckling. “Looks like Kaitou KID did a real number on your face.”

Conan reaches up to feel his cheek, and one of his fingertips comes away electric blue.

Huh. He didn’t even feel that.

“Thanks, mister!” He chirps cheerfully in response, letting himself hop as he runs past the officer to the lobby bathrooms. It’s only when the heavy door emblazoned _Men_ shuts behind him that he slumps and sighs out a breath. There’s no place his mask slips _(disappears)_ more often than at a heist, so Conan always lays it on thick in the aftermath, before the task force can start getting any ideas about him. It’s exhausting, playing up the persona after having just been so completely himself, like whiplash in his own mind. It feels like coming down from a high, to be so breathlessly _real_ for a night only to fall back into a life that isn’t.

Conan listlessly lifts himself on the marble counter to look in the mirror. His eyes widen at his reflection.

That _bastard._

From forehead to chin, the entire right side of Conan’s face is covered in KID caricatures meticulously painted in blues ranging from deepest navy to pale arctic. They’re close enough together that it almost resembles some sort of debasement of a lace pattern. Conan reaches up to touch his skin in numb disbelief. He’d inhaled maybe two breaths of sleeping gas before he managed to push out of the main hall of the hotel. He’d dozed off in the hallway for _one and a half minutes._ How the hell had KID managed?

There’s only a tiny smudge of electric blue where he rubbed his cheekbone earlier, and Conan groans when he realises that the work is etched in waxy liner instead of a more easily rinsible paint. He’ll have to sneak into Ran’s room to steal some of her makeup remover, though at this rate he may as well just buy a bottle himself. To hell with how weird it is for a seven-year-old to carry makeup remover–one never knows when one may be accosted by phantom makeup experts with a flair for being a _huge pain in the ass._

Conan glares at his reflection for a while longer, as if all of the mini versions of KID’s stupid smirking face will vanish the longer he stares at them. Unfortunately, the multicoloured thieves continue to grin at him from his skin.

He’s just about to hop off the counter, resigning himself to a walk home to the Agency looking like a deranged personal advertisement, when he notices something odd about the tassels on some of the doodles.

Conan leans in close to the mirror, cataloguing all the tiny monocle charms on the disaster that is his face. Some of them are a different shape than usual. More specifically, the charms drawn in a particular shade of blue have all been carefully reshaped into hearts.

Conan looks up to meet his own eyes, and the exact same hue stares back at him.

Suddenly, he remembers his encounter with the thief that night. A focused gaze raking over him, an indigo glint of satisfaction as two gloved fingers under his chin hold him still, lips stretched into a smug grin.

_“Just checking up on my work!”_

Something curls in Conan’s gut as the tip of his index finger traces one of the electric blue hearts right below his left eye. Red creeps behind blue as he feels a flush in his cheeks.

He almost wishes it were normal, that he could write this off as just another one of the phantom thief’s pranks, but no. Kaitou pranks are loud, colourful, and made to humiliate their unlucky victim in front of as many people as possible. They’re not subtle, not little secrets for only two people to know, not…

Not _clues_ , enticing him and leading him to a possibility that…

Conan focuses on his reflection again, on the soft curve of his jaw, on the baby fat in his cheeks, on everything small, small, so damn _small_. It was all wrong.

A tasteless joke. That’s all it is. There’s no way Kaitou KID could possibly find him desirable as he is now, even if he does know about Kudo Shinichi. Besides, whether he’s Conan or Shinichi, he’s a detective first and foremost, and KID had made his stance on _those_ clear.

( _nothing more than a_ critic, _remember?_ )

Conan shakes himself and jumps off the counter – he needs to go home. Kogoro won’t care until at least tomorrow morning but, if she’s still awake, Ran will worry. If she worries long enough to get angry she might actually start enforcing his curfew properly and – God forbid – begin to check his futon at night. He absolutely doesn’t want that to happen, no matter how conflicted he feels about KID right now.

Conan bites down hard on his lip, and briskly walks out the bathroom door.

The lobby’s almost empty; a few tired-looking officers are still milling around and chatting as they tug at the last remains of police tape. The man from earlier is among them, talking to a tall woman. He notices Conan making his way to the large glass doors, and points to his own face with a raised eyebrow. Conan just pulls a finger down his cheek in response, knowing that he’s barely smudged the pattern on his skin. The officer winces at him, and he looks sympathetic as he waves good night. Conan idly waves back, and he’s just about to push at the thick glass of the entrance’s revolving door when suddenly all his senses jump to life at once.

It’s like someone’s cranked up the volume on the entire world. His skin is prickling, the hairs in the back of his neck standing stiff as though being pulled by something. His instincts scream _pay attention! you’re in danger._ He freezes, one hand flat on the door. Someone is _watching._

He’s barely begun to turn his head to look around when a woman’s voice pipes from behind him. “Are you alright, little boy?”

Conan turns like his life depends on it.

The woman’s beautiful, with silken hair and fine features, but she may as well be a monster for the fear that’s rushing ice cold in his veins. She bends down, and though her expression is one of concern, her pale, reddish eyes are coolly analytical. There’s no doubt: these were the eyes he felt on his back.

Conan desperately tries to recall the descriptions of every Organisation member he’s heard of, but no one fits the face in front of him. He carefully shuts down the urge to shake, to step away, pulling _seven-year-old boy_ over himself like a shield.

“I’m okay Miss,” he replies, forcing a bright grin. “Just thought I dropped my badge, but it’s in my pocket, see?” He pulls the little Sherlock-shaped badge out to wave briefly in front of the woman’s startled eyes.

“I better go home and clean up then, Miss!” Conan tries to make his smile as cute and apologetic as possible.

_Just a kid who got pranked. Turn around. Nothing to see here._

The woman doesn’t budge. Instead, she looks over his face again. Her eyes widen before narrowing. Conan swallows, feeling as if Irene Adler herself were peering into him.

“It does seem like that thief has taken an… interest in you,” she says, voice tight with something Conan can’t identify. He blinks. That was… not what he expected. Is that why she’s been staring at him? He feels a tendril of hope.

“He got me today, but I’ll make sure he can’t prank me again,” Conan slips into his role as the cheerful KID-killer, praying she doesn’t know him as anything else. “Next time, I’ll stop him!”

Irene’s eyes flash dangerously at Conan’s words, but she straightens and her expression clears before he can so much as flinch. A slender hand reaches out and gently pushes some of his bangs, long nails catching at kinks and tugging his scalp.

“I’ll be looking forward to _next time_ , then,” she murmurs, and nods at him in acknowledgment before turning around and walking serenely away. Conan watches her go, a feeling of foreboding rising within him. He gleaned practically nothing from their conversation. He has absolutely no clue who she is or what she wants with him.

_Seems like the running theme of this whole goddamn night._

He shoves hard at the door, taking deep breaths of cool night air. It’s louder outside; cars pass through the hotel district at all hours and some devoted fans are still eagerly discussing the heist. A couple of them notice him, nudging each other (“ _Look! It’s the KID Killer!_ ”) but he ignores them to start his walk home.

He thinks.

Something happened, and he can’t shake off the impression that he missed it.

Conan runs a hand through his hair in frustration, distantly noting the lack of any planted bugs.

Irene can’t be on the task force or even in the _police_ force, that one’s for sure. Too young. Too graceful. No uniform. Maybe from the syndicate? Conan can’t think of anyone with her attitude–except one person, but Vermouth has always been more overt about her identity when she wants to leave _Cool Guy_ cryptic messages.

Plus, the label of the Black Org doesn’t fit this woman. He may not be Haibara, with her superhuman sense for picking them out, but he’s ready to bet that if Adler _is_ with the organisation, she’ll be someone like Vermouth or Bourbon–secretive, independent. That gives him time to throw her off. If she had already known his identity, surely, _surely_ , he’d be dead. The Organisation may be a downright crazy mix of individuals, but they all have one thing in common–they don’t approve of leaving loose ends.

Conan groans; he’s thinking himself in circles. If only he’d stayed longer to observe her. He curses himself. He shouldn’t have panicked like he did. That had been a golden opportunity – a _lead_ – and he’d wasted it.

Although, he tries to comfort himself, if he asks about _“that really pretty Onee-san”_ in the future, there’s no doubt the task force will know exactly whom he’s talking about.

Conan reaches the darkened windows of Poirot and sighs. The night had really ended up a mess. He’s not surprised though. It _was_ KID’s night.

Regardless, he’s home now, and he’s still breathing. He can be grateful for that, at least. To KID’s patron god, who refuses to let even _poisoned children_ get hurt at heists.

A sigh, the second one in the span of two minutes, escapes his lips as he makes his way up the stairs. The apartment is silent, plunged into the dark. Calmly, without making any sound, he traces a beeline to the room he shares with Occhan, changes into his blue pyjamas, brushes his teeth, cleans his face up, removes his glasses, lies down in his futon, buries his face in his pillow,

and proceeds to scream for twenty-eight seconds straight.


	2. Pale Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hi!"

The world truly is better when it smells of lavender.

Kaito sinks warmly into drifting bubbles, sighing as hot water soothes taxed muscles. He’d headed straight for the bath the moment he got home, his clothes left in a trail ending at the pair of boxers by the bathroom door. He lets out a sigh, content, as he hitches a leg up on the side of the ceramic bathtub.

Class had been twice as irritating that morning, what with only three hours of sleep to his name and Hakuba watching him like a hawk for signs of fatigue. Kaito’s sure that had Watson been with him, their eyes would’ve been identical.

The thought that the half-British detective was _still_ determined to catch him after all these months raises in Kaito a mix of admiration and pity. Honestly, the guy needs a life. It’s getting annoying having to fend off a round of accusations first thing on a Tuesday morning, first thing _every_ morning.

Kaito shifts and closes his eyes. Well, no point in reflecting on that now. He finally, _finally_ has some quality time with himself, can bask in the fact that he’s all alone at the moment with no one to–

“BAKAITO!”

Kaito shrieks and loses his grip on the sides of the tub, and for a brief second he fights against the instinct to inhale suds. He re-emerges, face dripping and eyes watering, choking out an incredulous _“Ahoko?!”_

He takes a minute to rub his eyes before lifting his head up and- yep, there she is, standing in the open doorway, one hand on her hip and the other wrapped around the handle of her mop. She’s changed out of her school uniform into a flowing, lilac dress. A sullen frown knits her brows.

Kaito rests his elbow against the edge of the bathtub, tilting his head to look at her as he regains his bearings.

“Come to join me?” he teases with a smirk.

Aoko only stares at him like she’d stared at the gum stuck under her shoe that morning.

“You promised you’d come try the new coffee-shop with Aoko,” she growls, unperturbed by his _tenue d’Adam._

“Oh,” he replies, frowning. “Right, I forgot. Kaito’s sorry?”

"Don't think you'll get out of this with apologies! You're still coming with me. You better be dressed in five or I swear to God Aoko will strap this mop to your–"

"Aoko-san, are you done with–"

As soon as Hakuba crosses the threshold he’s suddenly assaulted by: three bottles of shampoo and shower gel which hit him right in the forehead, four juggling balls, a box of Kleenex, three rolls of toilet paper, a bar of orchid soap, and an unscrewed shower head.

“What the _fuck_ is he doing here?!” Kaito hisses like a startled cat, drawing his thighs against his chest and tightly sealing them with his arms. “Get him _out!_ "

He shoots a dark glare at Hakuba, who’s retreated behind the mop and curled in on himself, both arms raised to fend off any attack.

Aoko doesn’t move, firmly planting her feet right by his discarded boxers. “Not until you’re ready to go!”

 Kaito puts his face in his knees, mourning his chastity. “I’ll never be a pure bride _,_ Aoko. You’ve tainted my future wedding. You don’t get to be my best woman anymore.”

 Aoko rolls her eyes as Hakuba peeps at him through the gap in his arms, looking relieved to see the sink still on the wall.

“Argh!” Kaito gropes blindly for something else to throw, but only grabs empty air. “ _Out!”_

Aoko crosses her arms but for once, Hakuba is only too eager to listen to him. He gently pulls her away by the elbow and she follows him willingly, though not without one last call of _“if you try to run away, Aoko_ will _hunt you down!”_

Kaito shuts his eyes in relief as their footsteps fade down his stairs. He’s about to lift himself out when he glances at the door, shrieks _again_ , and falls back into the water.

“Akako, what the hell are _you_ doing here?” he gasps, once again wiping stinging eyes. Akako saunters over, gracefully arranging her long uniform skirt to perch herself on the ceramic edge of his tub.

“You would do well to be more observant, Kuroba-kun,” she purrs. Her red eyes trail shamelessly down his exposed chest, a smirk settling on her lips. “I was here from the beginning.”

“Alright, Kuroko,” he crosses his arms uncomfortably, glaring back at her. There’s a brief pause. “Can you like, maybe, leave?”

“All things in due time,” Akako replies, as helpful as ever. Her eyes suddenly narrow menacingly, and Kaito suppresses a shiver, biting back the retort that had been on the tip of his tongue. “I have a warning for you.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “Really? Another one?”

Akako looks annoyed, but predictably ignores him. “Stay away from the blue-eyed reaper,” she commands him without preamble.

For once, the odd epithet sinks in immediately, raising a mess of fondness and fear. _Tantei-kun._

“No,” he says unthinkingly. His cheeks heat before he irritatedly tacks on, “why?”

“This is not a warning from the stars, _Kaitou KID_ -san,” Akako spits derisively, “this is a warning from _me._ Stay away from him, or he pays the price.”

Kaito frowns, suddenly awash with protectiveness over his detective. The temperature in the room drops, but he doesn’t back down. “What do you mean? What price?”

Akako swirls dismissively away from the bathtub, swiftly heading for the door. On the threshold, she pauses to look back at him. When she speaks, her voice is stinging ice.

“Try not to find out.”

The door swings shut behind her, and warmth instantly returns.

Kaito waits one, two, three seconds, and, when the witch doesn’t come back, he cautiously heaves himself out of the water, quickly towelling off and slipping into his periwinkle robe. He glances at the mirror, droplets of water dripping from the tips of his locks down to the tile floor. He walks up to the sink, and his reflection’s eyes are glazed.

He’s… confused.

Akako had never seemed so… _invested_ before. She usually delivered her warnings with detached amusement, sometimes vague hints of worry. Never like this, with acid-laced fury, with ice in her eyes.

This must be serious.

Kaito’s hands grip the porcelain, worry curls in his gut, and he only hesitates for a split-second before sticking two fingers in his mouth and letting loose a shrill whistle.

.

.

There’s a dove on the windowsill.

Kobayashi-sensei had assigned class B seats last week – taking care to separate each member of the Detective Boys – and Conan had found himself placed by the back-corner window of the classroom, so it’s right beside him.

He’s biting the tip of his pencil, chin resting on his right palm, and his eyes land on the bird for only a brief second before darting to the board, absentmindedly registering the newly-added _mountain_ kanji in Genta’s shaky handwriting. Hmm, two missing strokes, should he–

He stops short and looks back out the glass, frowning.

There’s a dove on the windowsill?

For a long moment, Conan stares blankly at the animal outside. There is, indeed, a dove on the windowsill. It flutters its pale feathers, beak raised high in the air, beady eyes bore into his and- is that a _smirk_?

Conan frowns.

Was this creature mocking him?

(It reminds him of someone.)

He scowls at the dove, breaking the intense eye contact to slide his gaze lower, before blinking upon noticing the small, black, device around the bird’s foot. He furrows his brows in alarm and, after sparing the teacher a brief glance, leans forward to squint at it.

A red light, barely visible, blinks back at him, and Conan lurches out of his seat in an indignant, bewildered, _furious_ realisation. Immediately, eighteen pairs of curious eyes turn to him and he sits back down, hands on his thighs, ignoring the feeling of Haibara’s smug gaze on him–well, he assumes it’s Haibara’s. It could just as easily be that _damn bird._

He doesn’t look at the miswritten kanji on the board, doesn’t look at the open book on his desk, and he definitely doesn’t look at the _camera_ barely three feet away from him. He refuses to lift his gaze from his lap, eyes scrunched shut and fists tightly clenching the fabric of his shorts.

Anger, so much anger, churns and bubbles inside of him until he can almost taste acid on his tongue.

A heist, fair enough, that was KID's ground. Anyone who stepped on to the scene was prepared for what that meant: spontaneous makeup, falling platforms, hell, _flying cameras_ , were all part of the job. At no point however, did that ever mean that he was willing to let the thief into the rest of his life. Watch him at _school_?

 At that thought, Conan’s teeth sink hard into his lip. What could KID even do with that footage, anyway? For what reason could he _possibly_ want it?

The memory of the last heist is wrenched forward with a violence that leaves him dizzy. The blue hearts once spread across his skin dance in his vision, and the tips of his fingers unconsciously brush his cheek, where the remnants of liner have long since been wiped away. There’s a conclusion, a logical inference, dangling just out of his reach, or maybe too far within it, because he just _can’t_ bring himself to–

Conan lets out a breath. When he opens his eyes, it isn’t to look at the teacher, but at his hands, laying flat on either side of his book.

His hands.

Only they’re not _his_. These hands are small. Tiny, minuscule, _babyish_. He stares at them, tries to fathom how someone could ever…

be _interested_.

(he can’t.)

The familiar eight-note chime of the school bell pulls him out of his thoughts with a start, and he lifts his head to look around him. Already, some of the students have begun filing out, and Mitsuhiko is looking at him with a determined glint in his eye as he packs his bag. Conan sweeps the room with his gaze until he locks eyes with Haibara, and subtly jabs a thumb towards the door, before holding up five fingers.

_Give me five minutes._

Haibara raises an eyebrow but gives him a curt nod, and the sound of her voice is enough to effectively divert Mitsuhiko’s attention. She waves Ayumi over, Genta naturally following, and the four of them engage in a hushed conversation, not-so-subtly glancing at Conan between whispered sentences. They’re the last to leave the room, the door sliding shut behind them.

The bird on the sill startles as he immediately fumbles for the window latch and opens it. The spring breeze that gusts in briefly flutters his bangs and the white strings of his hoodie, which the dove chews on when he grabs it between his hands.

He lifts it up until the device almost presses against his lips, takes in a deep breath, and…

.

.

“Kaito, you okay?”

Kaito carefully puts down his hot chocolate, the colour draining from his face as a deceptively innocent voice whispers death threats, peppered liberally with every swear word he’s ever heard and some he has _never_ heard, into his ear. His fingers twitch with the urge to rip out the earpiece and set it on fire.

Instead, he blinks and looks around the booth at his three classmates. “Yeah, why?”

“You stopped mid-sentence,” Hakuba remarks, eyeing him with a mix of interest and intrigue. “You were talking and then you stopped.”

Aoko’s frowning at him. “What’s wrong? Did they put in an uneven number of marshmallows again?”

Kaito looks down at his mug, where fourteen of them float lazily in whipped cream. The sight doesn’t even crack a smile out of him.

“That doesn’t seem to be the case,” Akako says silkily as she leans over to check. She pins him with a suspicious gaze, but his patience has dwindled to nothing. He stands up, hands flat on the table.

“Cramps,” he offers as an explanation. “I’m on my period.”

Then, nose high in the air, he walks out the coffee-shop door.

A second later, nose even higher, he walks back in and snatches his jacket from the top of the booth before leaving again.

.

.

The sound of Ayumi’s happy laugh drifts over them, bringing with it a gentle warmth in Conan’s chest. He and Haibara sit on the swings, the old metal frame squeaking quietly in protest at their idle swaying.

He’s looking down at his sneakers, but he’s painfully aware of Haibara’s emerald gaze, prickling the side of his cheek ever since he passed on playing soccer with the kids half an hour ago.

She hasn’t spoken a word since they settled on the swings, the silence only breaking for chirping birds, passing dogs and children’s excited laughter.

When she clears her throat, Conan lifts his head and gives her a wary side-glance.

“I have a question.”

“If it’s about what happened earlier, just let it go, alright? It’s nothing important.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then _what_?” he snaps in irritation.

“Why on earth is there a dove in your hood.”

Conan scowls. “It was the only solution,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

And it really was. The bird had refused to leave him alone, no matter how many times he shooed it away. He had eventually resigned himself to his fate and, instead of letting it use his hair as a nest, tucked it in the hood of his plum sweatshirt.

Ayumi’s uncontrolled laughter is still ringing out from the jungle gym, only now the sound is punctuated with frantic gasps for air.

“We better go make sure she doesn’t choke,” Haibara finally says, hopping primly off the swing. The dove coos when Conan does the same, and she eyes him in amusement. Conan ignores them both, making his way to where the Detective Boys are gathered behind a tree.

“Ayumi-chan, breathe,” Conan warns, coming up from behind her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts.

Ayumi makes a valiant effort to do just that, hiding her face in her hands as if to shield herself from whatever it is she’s finding so hilarious.

Conan frowns, sweeping his surroundings with his gaze. “What’s so funny?”

Mitsuhiko points to the sky and Conan lifts his head, only to lock eyes with a grinning teenage boy perched on the lowest branch of the giant oak tree.

“Hi!”

“You’re going to slip,” is the first thing Conan says, imperturbable. “You’re going to slip and fall.”

The teen only laughs at him – it wasn’t a joke – and, holding his gaze, deliberately tips sideways. Conan lunges forward in panic, hands automatically ripping out of his pockets as he reaches to catch the idiot thrice his weight, but abruptly stops short.

“What,” he asks, so confused he forgets to make it sound like a question.

“Unlike you,” the boy says, hands casually in the pockets of his jacket as he dangles from the branch by his legs, “I’ve mastered my chakra control.”

Adrenaline is still pounding through Conan’s veins as he blinks in shock, and he feels a surge of rage mixed with embarrassment.

“Good for you,” he snips, childish persona laying forgotten somewhere at his feet.

“Were you gonna catch me?” the boy beams, noticing his still outstretched arms. “That is so adorable!”

Conan snatches his hands back, crossing them tightly over his chest with a scowl. Perhaps this is one jerk too many for the bird in his hood, because the affronted animal finally flies out of its makeshift nest to land on the boy’s knees.

“Oh?” the teen lets himself drop, gracefully flipping over the branch to land on his feet. He holds out his index finger and the dove coos, fluttering down to perch delicately on it amid the kids’ gasps.

Conan stares with interest, and the gears in his mind begin to turn.

“She yours?” the teen asks, eyeing the bird as he scarcely pets her with the back of his left hand.

He doesn’t immediately reply, taking a moment to eye the stranger up and down. Purple Doc Martens, a short silver chain hanging from sleek skinny-jeans, white jacket, a black watch and three leather bands around his left wrist. Ruffled ebony hair; shit-eating, _familiar,_ grin.

He can’t see the boy’s eyes under the tint of his sunglasses, but he has a sneaking suspicion as to their colour.

“Sort of,” Conan says at last, focus fixed on the figure in front of him. “I’m looking to give her back to her owner.”

The boy hums in understanding, still stroking white feathers, absolutely _refusing_ to look at him. “Any luck finding them?”

“I think I just did.”

The detective boys all take a step back at the murderous, _violet_ aura that suddenly emanates from their de facto leader. “C-Conan-kun,” Ayumi pipes up in hesitation. “You… look scary.”

Haibara simply sighs. “Deal with this quickly, Edogawa-kun, and do try not to… strain yourself.”

Conan doesn’t break eye contact with KID the whole time Haibara leads the kids away.

An uncertain smile stretches the corners of the thief’s lips as he stuffs a hand in his jean pocket, briefly looking around him, before removing his sunglasses – yep, Conan notes absentmindedly, that was indigo alright – and sliding them on his collar.

Conan doesn’t wait for him to say something to try to save himself from the situation that he caused all on his own. He crosses the distance between them in a few strides, holds out a clenched fist. KID bends down slightly, hands on his thighs, intrigued, but doesn’t make any further moves. Impatient, Conan grabs one of the thief’s hands and tips the contents into the palm. “Here.”

KID stares blankly at the numerous little black pieces in his palm for a long time, before his brows sink into a scowl. “Do you know how much this stuff _costs_?”

The detective simply shrugs. “You were the one who decided to creepily spy on an elementary school student, like a creep. I was only fulfilling my duty as an upstanding citizen.”

“Wha- come _on,_ stop making me out to be some kind of–”

KID’s mouth twists into a grimace.

“Criminal?”

“Better than the word I was thinking, I guess.”

Conan brushes the last of the metallic dust off his palms, placing his hands back into now-empty pockets. That taken care of, he roots his left leg firmly on the ground, and, calling back all the rage that had been at a low boil ever since he’d locked eyes with the dove on the windowsill, he inhales a deep breath before–

“I’m going to _kill_ you! I’m going to end,” a sharp kick in the shin. “your,” another one, “existence!”

A shriek, shortly followed by pained gasps. “Hold on–wait–ow– _tantei-kun_!”

Conan stops mid-kick. The familiar address dampens his murderous instincts, the sound of it shuddering through him and forcing him to falter. His ears burn at his own ridiculous reaction to a _nickname_. He lifts his head to glare at KID and crosses his arms again, irritated.

“That was mean,” the thief whines, rubbing his calf. “Is there anyone out there as angry as detectives. Is there _anyone_.”

“You can only blame yourself,” Conan replies, not missing a beat. “Stalking me. _Me_? What were you even thinking?”

Before the thief can answer, the dove, who had flown away at the detective’s assault, sweeps down to – oddly enough – Conan’s shoulder. KID's eyes follow the sunlit bird as it lands, and Conan startles when he feels a warm beak nuzzle his cheek. He reaches up, unsure, and feathers brush briefly against the pad of his index finger before a weight settles back into his hood. When he turns back from the nestling bird, KID is still watching him, and there’s something in his indigo gaze, something so soft, so _fond_. Conan’s chest feels tight, and he can’t look away.

(and there’s that question again, seeming more and more–)

“I was worried,” the thief says.

“What do you mean?”

KID simply shrugs, leaning against the oak tree. “It’s a dangerous world out there, especially for a blue-eyed reaper such as yourself.” Conan’s not sure, but it sounds like an echo of someone else’s words. He frowns but already KID is moving on, an implacable smile pulling his lips. It looks painful, Conan can’t help but think. “I had a little free time so, after a nice bath, I put on my disguise and came to visit my best critic.” He opens his arms. “Here I am.”

“How magnanimous of you,” the detective huffs, raising an eyebrow. “Who’re you supposed to be disguised as?”

KID beams, the oddly pensive look disappearing as if it were never there. “Can’t you see? I’m _you_ , but cooler.”

Conan roots his left leg again.

The thief pales slightly before quickly adding, “kidding, kidding! This dude here is actually called Kaito.”

Conan pins him with an unimpressed look. “How unoriginal,” he humphs, before frowning at the sudden laugh that escapes KID’s lips. “What’s so funny _now_?”

The magician opens his mouth but before he can reply, the dove coos. From where it’s perched on Conan’s shoulder. Directly into Conan’s ear. The detective grimaces, tries to shoo it away, but it only moves back into his hood.

“Ugh!” Conan grumbles when his arms don’t reach it. He spins around a few times, even goes as far as jumping a little.  KID only watches with amusement. The bastard. “Get it off me!”

“ _It_?” KID chokes. “Excuse me, Heart-chan is a goddess and she’s a _she_.”

Even the bird sounds offended as it begins to hoot repeatedly, and he cringes, slapping both hands over his ears. “I don’t _care_ , just get her away!”

The use of the dove’s correct pronoun must’ve pleased the thief, or he took pity on him, because he grabs Conan’s hoodie with one hand, pulling him over and keeping him still. Conan quiets as KID gently lifts the animal out of it, and he can’t help but remember the last time the thief was so close, can’t help but remember the feeling of warm, gloved fingers around his chin.

(the question is still turning round and round his mind like a bad mantra)

The firm hand lets go of him and Conan turns around.

KID is sitting on the grass, back against the oak tree, dove in his cupped hands. He’s smiling down at her– _actually_ smiling, and it tugs the corner of his eyes; happy, carefree, genuine. Everything that Conan isn’t, everything that Conan wishes he was, but he’s not even envious because it just– it just _fits._

So, he doesn’t think when he walks up to KID until he’s standing between his casually bent legs, the side of his sneakers brushing the thief’s side, he doesn’t think when they lock eyes, KID’s - so close - shining with indigo intrigue, he doesn’t think when he asks,

“Do you have feelings for me?”

KID chokes. Actually chokes. On his own saliva. “What?” he coughs out. “You- I-… _what_?”

 Conan grits his teeth, feeling a flush of humiliation creep up the back of his neck.

(unfathomable)

 “Never mind.” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “It was a stupid–”

In a heartbeat, fear trickles, icy cold, down his spine. His blood feels like it’s freezing his insides, the park is suddenly so, so loud and his thoughts spin in a frantic whirlwind of _danger danger danger_ –

“Go home, KID,” he says, willing his voice not to shake, hating himself when it does anyway.

KID stops short, panic making way for a frown. “What’s wrong?”

(no time no time)

“Nothing.” Something desperate seeps into his voice. He takes a step back. “Leave me alone.”

“Meitantei.” KID takes a step forward twice the length of his, the back of his white jacket fluttering with a gust of warm wind. He looks the same, same casually-dressed teenager in a park, but there’s a palpable _weight_ to his words, like the moon itself is at his back. “Are you in trouble?”

Conan flinches. He looks around, eyes scanning his surroundings, ( _Adler?)_ but the only woman he sees is a mother crouched over her toddler. His heart continues to pound a bruise against his ribs even as the child begins to cry.

He looks back at KID. The thief’s staring back with alarm. He’s not smiling anymore.

Conan tries to speak up, to paste on a blasé expression and brush it off with a well-delivered _don’t worry about me, idiot! I’m fine_. But his throat is frustratingly clenched shut.

He needs to go. KID can’t be a part of this, can’t be _contaminated_.

He takes a few steps back, turns to leave, but a firm hand catches his fingers. A harsh spark of pain courses through him at the contact, like the sharp crackle of a taser in the back of his neck.

“Shit,” KID curses, shaking his hand as if to dispel the shock. “What was that?”

“Static shock,” the detective replies, turning around to pin the thief with a weird look. The prickling, urgent feeling has faded, strangely. “It’s when–”

“I know what static shock is!”

“Alright then,” Conan says, uncomfortably aware of what conversation he’s abruptly been brought back to. He steps away. “Well, this was nice.”

“Wait–”

But KID doesn’t catch him this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after a lot of tears, sweat, and blood, this chapter is finally wrapped up. this was just. so good to write with Calc, so _smooth._
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and pretty comments! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as we did writing it. xxx 
> 
> helloimtrash.


	3. Ebony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_can we meet?_

_?_

_Who is this?_

_who knows_ _･゜ﾟ･:._ _｡.._ _｡.:_ _･'(_ _ﾟ▽ﾟ)'_ _･:._ _｡. ._ _｡.:_ _･゜ﾟ･_

_KID._

_How did you get this number_

_do you even have to ask_

_No._

_to which question??_

_Both._

_i was just being nice that first one wasn’t a question_

_i’m in your bedroom_

_Get out._

_but tantei-kun_

_holmes awaits your rescue_

_(photo)_

_PUT MY BOOKS DOWN_

_ohhhh my god my lighter is so cloooooose_

_(photo)_

_KID._

_If that flame even brushes the corner of a page, I will put YOU down._

_come join me then (_ _・`ω´_ _・)_

_...fine._

_Put my books back in order first._

_._

_._

KID’s on his bed.

He’s lying back with one leg resting on a raised knee, the first volume of the _Night Baron_ series held high above his face. He doesn’t lift his head at the creak of the door, so Conan pauses in the doorway to let himself study the thief.

No white uniform, this time, just a large hoodie pulled down over a Tokyo Spirit cap – is that his? – to shield his face. The rest of his clothes are plain too: black jeans, gloves and ankle socks of the same colour. When Conan briefly takes survey of the room, he notices a pair of sneakers neatly placed at the foot of the windowsill, leaving him no doubts as to how KID got in. A black smartphone lays innocuously on the duvet by the thief’s hip, and Conan wrinkles his nose as he remembers why he’s here.

“I thought I said to put my books back in order,” he finally says, sliding his hands in his pockets.

Immediately, KID puts down his book to shoot him an indignant glare. “I did!” he protests, “Alphabetically too, author’s surname and all. Every single one of them.”

Conan raises an eyebrow, gaze dropping to the book on the thief’s lap.

“I was bored,” he defends. “Sue me.”

“One day,” Conan mutters, absentmindedly scratching the inside of his wrist. “Why… why did you want to see me?”

The tension in his voice makes him wince.

KID sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed to look at him fully–or at least Conan thinks he is, it’s hard to tell with that damn cap only revealing the lower part of his face.

When KID speaks, his voice carries an exasperated tone. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

Conan’s stomach sinks. The memory of sick humiliation burns. He looks down, swallows a thick lump before licking his lips; his voice is barely above a whisper. “That really isn’t something that needs to be discussed.”

“Too bad for you, I think it is,” KID says, undeterred.

“No, really,” Conan crosses his arms, digging his nails into thin sleeves, “just drop it. It’s not important.”  

“Tantei-kun, I can help.”

“ _Help_?” he repeats, dumbfounded. “There’s nothing to _help,_ just let it go!”

“Come on–the one time I’m actually _offering_!”

“ _Offering?_ ” Conan sputters, and his cheeks are flaming, either from embarrassment or sheer anger, he’s not sure. “Offering what, you imbecile?”

“You know,” he spreads his arms out like a welcoming showman, “me.”     

Conan stares at him.

Unbelievable.

“Fuck. You,” he grinds. There’s a disgusting crawling under his skin that he tries hard to scratch away.  “I don’t need your _pity._ ”

“Pity?” KID blinks. “No – _no!_ –  I know you can handle yourself. I just want to help.”

Conan starts to open his mouth, but pauses. That response seems… off.

“Wait,” he frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that, there’s obviously someone after you.” KID tilts his head to one side, confused. “What are _you_ talking about?”

“I–Nothing. Nothing at all.” Conan rubs at the flush on the back of his neck, quickly catching up. “So what makes you think _you_ can help?”

KID doesn’t miss a beat. “Duh, I’m _me._ You know, master of disguise, modern Arsène Lupin, Moonlight Magician, Phantom Thief 1412–”

“I get it, I get it,” Conan cuts him off, pinching the bridge of his nose.  A headache is imminent. “Well, you can’t,” he begins to say, but then stops short. Hadn’t he met Adler at a heist? “Unless you know a tall, red-haired woman with brown eyes, kinda reddish?” he asks, with no real hope.

“Mmh,” KID crosses his arms, pensive. “Kinda weak as a reference. Elaborate?”

Conan fiddles with his fingers, tugging at the digits as he racks his brain.

“She has a… weird vibe,” he says softly. “Like,” he makes a vague gesture with his right hand. “No one wanted to say no to her. And she’s - um - very pretty? She was-”

“She was?” the thief prompts him - there’s something in his voice akin to _apprehension_.

“... almost sparkling,” Conan finishes, before shaking his head. “I guess that doesn’t really...” he trails off.

KID’s mouth is tightened in a grimace.

“You know her,” the detective states. “Who is she?”

KID crosses the carpet in a few strides, startling Conan when he grabs his shoulders with a sudden urgency. From this angle, Conan can see the sharp, shadowed gaze scanning him from head to toe. “When did you meet her? Why? I swear, if she did anything to you-”

Conan swipes the arms off him, ignoring the uncomfortable _itching_ all over. He watches KID pace for a moment, before irritation takes over, “KID, who is she?”

KID stops in the middle of his carpet, turning back to him and, without any warning or explanation, hands on his hips, he throws, “She’s a witch.”

A pause.

“Hilarious,” Conan replies, deadpan. “You’re a real help.”

KID’s eyes flash with something like frustration, but the heat disappears as quickly as it comes. He makes an aborted motion forward, as though stopping himself from reaching for Conan’s shoulder again. “Hey,” he says instead, a distinct note of alarm in his voice. “You okay? You keep…” A black-gloved hand gestures to Conan’s arms.

Conan looks down to see his sleeves pushed up and his nails digging deep into his skin. Pinpricks of red well up from the angry welts he’s left.

He pulls his sleeve down sharply, scowling. “I’m fine. Just a–”

He freezes.

 _No_ , he tries to convince himself, _it’s not usually like this_. It’s not usually this _subtle_. Transforming back to Shinichi is loud and messy and _explosive_ _–_ a building burn in a violent heartbeat, a black blur swiping over his vision, taking him by surprise, interrupting him mid-sentence.  It doesn’t creep over him from the dark, doesn’t give him _warning_ signals.

But can he really afford doubt? Can he, someone with poison practically running through his veins, afford to wait, to hope?

(he needs to go)

KID’s voice is tentative, concerned.  “Why don’t we put something on that, okay?”

Conan shakes himself, a little dazed. “Yes,” he agrees slowly. “I should head over to the Professor’s.” Haibara. He needs Haibara.

“Hang on, hang on,” the thief says, squatting down at his level and gingerly lifting one of Conan’s forearms between his hands, delicately, like Conan’s seen him do with his dove. “I don’t think this requires his level of expertise. Or, uh, his _field_ of expertise.”

Conan lifts his head to lock eyes with the thief, and he knows, he _knows_ he looks like a deer caught in the headlights–and rightly so. KID’s grip on his arm is tight, expecting him to bolt; there’s no way he’d get away, especially with a child’s strength–

Conan blinks.

He _is_ a child, isn’t he?

He takes a deep steadying breath, gathering a strength he’s never had to pull on for KID, and he ignores the way it seems to wrench his very being. He screws up his face, and it’s embarrassingly easy to let tears well up in his eyes.

When he looks up at KID again, he’s not a day older than seven.

“I want to see the Professor!” He wails like his heart is broken. KID lets go of his arm like he’s been stung. His eyes are wide in stupefaction.  

“Meitantei,” he tries, but Conan furiously shakes his head, stubbornly clapping his hands over his ears. He sobs, shaking gasps that shudder through his tiny frame.

“Why won’t you let me see the Professor?” he whimpers like KID’s the root of everything horrible in the world, wiping tears with balled up fists.

“Okay,” KID shrieks, raising his hands as if to calm him down, “okay, okay, okay okay okay. Let’s go to the Professor’s,” two gloved hands grasp his, much smaller, and lead him out the door. “We’re going to the Prof’s, see? Please stop.”

As they make their way down the stairs and out the door, KID glances at him repeatedly. “Tantei-kun,” he tries again, his voice softer, but Conan only sniffs and ducks his head to avoid the searching gaze. The thief’s grip stops him from scratching, but the itch only becomes _louder_ , and he finds himself biting his lower lip. It’s maddening, he wants to claw at his skin, he would almost prefer the quicker pain.

The metallic gate creaks when KID opens it with both his hands, and Conan takes the opportunity to bolt for Agasa’s busted door, still off its hinges from the last explosion. He doesn’t hear KID’s footsteps behind him, but he knows the thief’s following.

“Shini–Conan-kun!” the Professor corrects himself at the sight of the unfamiliar figure. “Who’s your friend?”

He doesn’t answer, only running past him and down the basement stairs, scratching scratching _scratching_.

Haibara’s at her desk, not even turning around to deliver the beginnings of the usual lecture. “Really, Kudo-kun, one would think you’d have _some_ manners when-”  

“Haibara,” he cuts her off, and he can hear the desperation in his own voice. “There’s something wrong with my body.”

Haibara snaps around, her eyes automatically looking him up and down. “Explain,” she says curtly, and points to the table of doom in the corner of the room, “and sit.”

He does, starting from the sensation’s subtle itches to the way it’s spread all over him like a sprawling, crawling second skin. Haibara’s brow furrows further with every word, until finally she snaps.

“I need to gather my diagnostic equipment,” she says. “In the meantime,” she grabs a disposable plastic cup from a tower on the table, “take a sample.”

Conan takes the cup with twitching fingers, climbing back up the stairs. He stops at the last one and presses his ear to the door - KID’s fake smile is audible in his voice, honeyed assurances spilling from his lips as he spins a story to placate the bemused inventor who must be blocking his path.

Conan deliberates for a moment on the best way to go about this, but then his jaw clenches as the itching heightens, and he can’t bring himself to care.

He shoves past a startled thief and inventor and races for the bathroom, and KID doesn’t even finish his “Tan–” before he locks the door behind him and leans against it.

He chokes out a gasp–it feels like something under his skin is scratching at the surface with sharpened nails, trying to break _out_. He stumbles, catching himself on the porcelain sink as he coughs, the cup falling from his fingers down to the tiled ground. He lifts his arms, runs his hands under freezing water, but the numbness doesn’t go far enough. The sensation only intensifies, and he feels a frustrated scream building in his throat that he can’t hold back and it just–

Stops.

The scream falls out of his mouth in a silent exhale.

Conan looks down at his hands and frowns.  

They’re still small.

What just happened?

He lifts himself up from where he’s fallen on the floor, cautiously stepping on the small stool in front of the sink, and locks gazes with his reflection.

His bangs are plastered to his forehead with sweat, matted ebony stark against pale skin. He frowns at his hair - he must have run his hands through it one too many times, because strands are hanging loose around his jaw. Though - when had it become this _long?_ The ends are nearly brushing his collarbones, yet he could have sworn that even his cowlick hadn’t reached the bottom of his neck this morning.

He sighs. This isn’t the time to write essays about accelerated hair growth: there’s a thief in the living-room and a scientist waiting. He lets himself drop on the ground to pick up the cup, and he’s thinking about three things at once when he pulls down his shorts, so he doesn’t notice at first.

Until he does.

.

.

Standing in front of a perplexed Professor, Kaito’s knitting up a story about how he’s a friend of Tantei-kun’s second cousin twice-removed, and he’s in the middle of relating their encounter in the park when suddenly,

he hears screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Haha. Happy reveal! (that revealed _nothing!_ )  
> There was a lot of simultaneous laughing and crying while this chapter was being written bahahahaha god am I glad we were able to finish it.
> 
> Thank you a million times for the wonderful comments, they were an absolute joy to read :D I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter just as much. <3
> 
> \- Calculatrice


	4. Hazel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you had a nice Carnaval xxx

The scream hadn’t been much one of agony or fear or terror more as it had been one of shock. A panicked shout that lasted two seconds yet conveyed sheer, absolute horror.

 _Horror_ , Kaito repeats to himself again and again, not agony or fear or terror.

(it doesn’t make him feel better)

“Tantei-kun,” he grits between his teeth, shaking the bathroom doorknob. “Let me in.”

There’s a muffled bang from within the room, and an ensuing gasp of _“no”_ followed by a “ _go away!_ ”. The tense undercurrent of vulnerability makes his jaw clench and his lips set into a tight line. He reaches into his pocket for his picks, when suddenly a small, cold hand wraps firmly around his wrist. He jumps, curses, and spins around, blocking off the door.

A child, one of Tantei-kun’s school friends, short, strawberry blonde hair, eyes as frigid as her hand, barely reaching his waist. Kaito searches through the scores of memorised faces in his brain to pull up the corresponding name. Haibara Ai.

“Move,” she commands.

Her voice is like Meitantei’s, mature, carrying a weight belying her age.

“He’s not gonna open the door,” he says, stepping to the side anyway. “But be my guest.”

She shoots him a glance out of the corner of her eye, before sharply rapping on the door. “Edogawa-kun?”

 _click_.

Kaito blinks.

...What?

The door opens a few centimetres, and Haibara wiggles her fingers in the gap. She turns her head slightly to give Kaito a warning glare. As soon as she slips through the opening, it shuts again with a resounding thud.

The lock slides back into place.

Kaito stares at the polished doorknob (so easy, it’d take him only a second) before lifting his head, and he finds himself locking gazes with the Professor, who’s staring back with sudden realisation. “I think that you should leave.”

Kaito tugs the brim of Kudō Shinichi’s cap down.

If he strains his ears, he can hear hushed whispering from inside the bathroom. If he leans down, just a little, he’s sure he’ll be able to make out the words.

But tantei-kun doesn’t want him to.

(it stings)

He hums and, without a word, steps past the Professor, sliding his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He’s on the threshold of the busted door when he finds himself pausing, indecision curling in his stomach.

“When he comes out,” he begins, not having to turn around to know he’s captured the inventor’s attention, “tell him the offer still stands.”

.

.

“You know,” Haibara starts, eyes fixed on the swirling hazel in the test tube before her. “I was convinced that you wouldn’t undergo any further transformations. Not without a catalyst, at least. But you seem to always exceed my expectations.”

Conan ignores her last comment to ask, “So you’re saying this isn’t the poison?”

“This isn’t the Apotoxin, that I can confirm with certainty. Poison has no concept of gender norms, after all.” She flicks his long locks with a curious finger. “Moreover, all your body samples seem to have no idea they’ve switched sex.”

Conan furrows his brow, crossing his arms uncomfortably over his chest.

“Not to mention,” she adds, “the toxin was designed to cause a body to self-destruct on a cellular level, which can - apparently - lead to shrinking said body, but there’s no way it’d trigger the spontaneous construction of female genitals and,” she raises an eyebrow, and her eyes briefly glance down, “the disappearance of the male ones, I’m assuming?”

He groans, dropping his face down into his hands. “I’m a girl. I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m an actual girl.”

Haibara’s lips twist briefly in a grimace before her face turns businesslike. “Was there any pain? During the transformation?”

“No, it was exactly what I told you before but,” he hunches his shoulders at the memory, “more. And then it all stopped, just like that.”

“Interesting,” Haibara hums, staring at him like he’s a particularly complex equation she has to ponder. For a long moment, she only taps her chin, thinking, and Conan stares back expectantly, because this is _Haibara_ and surely she’ll come up with a solution or a scientific explanation or _something._

But she shakes her head.

“I’ll look into this, but there are more important things we need to consider now.”

Conan’s head snaps up. “More important?” he repeats disbelievingly.

Again, a brief grimace. “Your identity, _Edogawa-kun._ ”

Of course. His sex means nothing if he’s dead.

(seems like a recurring theme in his life)

Haibara clears her throat. “You know, Kudō-kun, some things are infinitely more workable when you're still prepubescent,” she begins, curling a considering hand around a long, black lock.

Only for them both to gape, wide-eyed, as it starts to shorten between her fingers.

.

.

Kaito’s pissed.

He’s dragging his feet along the sidewalk, trying to distract himself by counting his steps–seventy-one, each a bare foot long, which means he’s walked approximately twenty-one metres since he left the Professor’s and he’s twenty-one metres away from _tantei-kun_ who hadn’t let him _in_ and counting is _not_ working.

He’s barely reached the end of the block, and there’s loud sobbing coming from the opposite sidewalk. When Kaito looks up, he spots a child held in the arms of her father. He’s gently stroking caramel hair with quiet murmurs of “there, see, it’s okay now, you’re okay,” until the little girl’s cries quiet down into sniffling hiccups.

He looks away.

It’s fine. It’s fine! They work alone. Of course that wouldn’t change, even after he’d almost gotten blown up for him, even if the last couple of times he’d seen tantei-kun he’d gotten a smirk and a conversation rather than a dart to the face and a soccer ball to the back, even if _Heart-chan_ adopted him, of course, of _course._

He’s still a thief; Kudō’s still a detective.

The hand in his right pocket brushes the corner of his phone, and without thinking, he pulls it out. When he unlocks it, the screen comes up where he left it–the text conversation with tantei-kun. He absentmindedly scrolls up, until he can’t anymore. _can we meet?_

Right, Kaito frowns, he’d never gotten around to…

( _d_ _o you have feelings for me?_ )

answering.  

Kaito stops in his tracks, a red flush crawling up his cheeks that he tries to push firmly down. He _couldn’t,_ not then, at the park, when the detective had looked so _scared_ , tiny wrist trembling in Kaito’s grasp; nor this morning, when he’d looked so _cornered,_ standing with clenched fists in the sepia doorway of his own bedroom.  

Not now, when he obviously doesn’t want him around.

And it’s all so _frustrating_ because Kudō is supposed to be a _good_ detective, isn’t he?

(hearts, covering pale skin and surrounding startled sapphire, a chin held delicately between his fingers, his detective, staring back with wide eyes, with innocent intrigue, with _trust_ )

Kaito lets his forehead drop against the wall, stone lukewarm against his skin and under his hands, and he scrunches his eyes shut. He wants to scream.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, gathering fiery determination.

Well, no matter. If dropping subtle hints wasn’t going to work, he only needs to do what he does best.

Steal.

.

.

“... So what exactly happened, again?” the Professor asks, filling Conan’s tan coffee mug to the brim for the second time.

The detective sighs, running his fingers through mercifully short hair, before taking the drink handed back to him. “Thanks. And I have no idea.”

Haibara’s frowning, her arms crossed and her finger tapping her elbow at a rapid pace.

“Please repeat that to me again.”

A second sigh. He just wants to go home. “I told you, it felt like it was tingling, only this time it only itched for a couple seconds, but like - in crescendo. And you _saw_ the rest,” he takes a long, warm sip, pulling his sleeves mid-palm to cushion the heat. “Can’t we just, drop it? Ignore it, since it’s gone away?”

“It could come back,” the scientist raises an eyebrow. “With your luck, it _will_ come back. And what happened to your natural curiosity? Aren’t you even a little concerned?”

He takes another gulp of coffee, avoiding her gaze. “More important things,” he mumbles in his mug.

Something like regret flashes in Haibara’s eyes, before she draws her shoulders in and looks away.

“Oh!” the Professor suddenly exclaims, dropping a fist on his right palm. “That reminds me.” They both turn to look at him. “Your,” a pause, “friend, he left a message.”

Conan chokes, putting his mug down on the counter to pound his chest. He ignores their surprised looks in favor of coughing, “What’d he say?”

“W-well, if I remember correctly,” Agasa starts, blinking at him, “he said something about an offer still standing.”

Conan stares for a moment, before he looks down, a short, startled laugh shaking his shoulders. His fingers curl tightly around his mug, and a bitter smile tugs the corner of his lips.

Of course, of course that thief would–

( _I just want to help_ )

What an _idiot._

He slides his glasses off and pushes the heels of his palms down into his eyes, focusing on the dark backs of his eyelids. Neither the professor nor Haibara make a sound, and the only thing he can hear is the faint, repetitive _tick_ of the clock. He fixes on the steady rhythm, dispassionately letting the events of the past three hours untangle from the mess they’ve made of his mind, lets them organise themselves into neat, rational lines, until finally,

He can think.

A million thoughts clamour at once for his attention – scarlet eyes on the back of his neck, constant, invisible danger, an impossible transformation that feels like a fever dream – and they’re all urgent, all thoughts he needs to consider and address. Yet, the only one he manages to grasp, to hold onto, is _KID_.

KID, who’s a thousand skills and a well of information just waiting to be tapped, whom he can no doubt use to his advantage, who seems to want him to do just that, with his suspiciously noble motives and countless aliases and nonexistent pokerface and…

Now, without embarrassment or pride colouring his perspective and forcing him to pull away, Conan finds himself reconsidering.

The offer still stands, huh.

.

.

“Jii-chan, it hurts me that you won’t trust me with the stuff,” Kaito whines, facedown on the polished bar surface of the Blue Parrot. “I thought you cared about me. I thought you loved me.”

On the other side of the counter, Jii’s wiping off cocktail glasses.  “I will not give you any alcohol, Bocchama. You are underage. Not to mention that you already seem like you’ve just come home from a bar crawl.”

“Excuse you, my blood alcohol percentage is at zero, okay,” Jii-chan turns to put away the set of glasses and Kaito quickly downs the old man’s abandoned tumbler of whiskey, “ _zero,_ ” he emphasises.

When Jii turns back, he gives the empty glass a long, hard look and lifts his head to stare at the magician, who stares back. “Bocchama! This was full! Did you-”

Kaito cuts him off by reaching out a hand to his forehead. “Jii-chan, you just drank that. I saw you with my own two eyes. Are you feeling okay?”

Jii looks back down, and he’s never seemed more lost. “Did I…”

Wisely, and much to Kaito’s despair, he doesn’t refill the glass, simply putting it away. “Maybe you’re developing Alzheimer’s,” Kaito suggests, scowling at the toffee-coloured coaster. Then, he lights up. “Hey, here’s an idea, how about I mind the bar for you while you head into the backroom for a well-deserved break and contemplate the possibility.”

“I’m not that old,” says Jii mildly, unmoving from his spot behind the bar. He finally gives his full attention to the sulking teenager, “Bocchama, perhaps you’d like to tell me the reason behind your sudden craving for liquor?”

Kaito folds his arms over the counter. “My next heist,” he starts, fingers drumming on the lacquered surface, “needs to be amazing.”

“...Like always.”

“No, you don’t understand. It needs to be,” he makes explosion noises with his mouth, hands gesturing wildly until he accidentally knocks an ashtray off the bar. He snatches it out of the air before it flies too far, spinning it around one finger. “It’s a very important heist to me.”

“And why is that, do tell?”

Kaito opens his mouth, pondering for a moment, before decidedly announcing, “someone very dear to me is going to attend, and I want their attention.”

Jii’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Kaito sighs theatrically, “since he couldn’t get it while I was being subtle, I have to up my game.”

The old man only blinks at the pronoun, before hesitantly asking, “subtle?”

Kaito waves a hand dismissively. “You know, pranks and stuff. I prank him a lot, shove little hints into everything. Figured that was right up his alley, since he’s the detective kinda guy. Boy was I wrong. Scientists could scour the world for centuries and find no denser material than him.” Despite himself, he feels a smile stretching his lips. “What an idiot.”

“Bocchama,” Jii looks suddenly very concerned, eyes widening in realisation, “I didn’t know you were interested in Hakuba-san that way.”

Tinny alarm bells shriek. The ashtray flies off his finger. Terracotta flower pots crash somewhere near the entrance. He gapes at Jii in pure horror as the soft memory of tantei-kun with Heart-chan in his hood is shattered by _clocks_ and _brown_ and hideous cosplay-

“ _Hakuba?_ ” Kaito screeches, “what? No - _no_! I wasn’t… _what?_ ”

Jii’s expression is bemused, if somewhat relieved. “Really? Because I was under the impression that you were describing him.”

“Hell no,” the magician laughs, almost hysterically. “If I was in love with Hakuba I’d probably just kill myself, honestly.”

“So you are in love with this person?”

Kaito stops short. He pauses for a long moment, thinks about moonlit smirks and playful banter, quick retorts and inventive stunts, a grin aimed at a happy dog, late nights spent studying old interviews to perfect his disguise, a panicked look and arms stretched forwards to catch _,_ to _save._

And then he breathes, eyes looking down. “Yes. Yes, I am.”  He lifts his head back up. “And that’s why this heist needs to be perfect.”

.

.

“It’s the cook.”

“It’s not the cook, it’s obviously the maid!”

“Ran, please. I’m the detective here. It’s the cook.”

“He has a perfect alibi!”

“That’s why he did it!”

Absentmindedly listening to the heated debate, Conan raises his chopsticks, blowing softly before he puts the piece of beef in his mouth. The TV, under Ran and her father’s voices, is showing a close-up of Detective Samonji’s pensive eyes when it suddenly sputters, scene blurring into fuzz.  

Kogoro curses, immediately crawling over to pound on the top of it, and the image jolts back into focus.

“Conan-kun! tell him the maid’s the culprit.”

The detective lifts his head, briefly giving them both a lost smile. “Mmh, I thought the wife looked kinda suspicious.”

“As if, brat,” Kogoro sneers, plopping himself back down in front of his bowl. Conan shrugs, the picture of childish nonchalance, and turns back to his food, letting their voices fade into white noise.

“Hush! They’re going to reveal the culprit,” Ran suddenly cuts, and Conan looks to the determined detective on the screen, a second away from brandishing his finger at the culprit. The suspense-filled sound of orchestral strings heightens, then-

The scene changes to a news anchor sitting behind a glass desk.

Kogoro howls as scrolling text rather unnecessarily informs them that _Detective Samonji: The Mansion of the Seven Masks_ has been interrupted for an impromptu broadcast. Conan, however, pushes his bowl aside and leans over the walnut table, eyes lighting up with sudden interest.

Splashed across the screen behind the anchor is a high definition shot of a familiar thief, perched on a mahogany display case with one hand pinching the brim of his hat.

“KID has just delivered his latest notice to Nichiuri TV, this time accompanied by several ornamental swans!” the reporter informs them the same moment something buzzes in his back pocket.

Conan blinks, slowly pulling out his phone, and a message flashes on the locked screen, right underneath the stupid kaomoji he’d pasted into the contact name.

_It’s a date._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> voilà voilà, a fresh new chapter on this evening. 
> 
> So, plot's finally, finally revealed, after like +10k words. Like mentionned in the tags, this fanfiction is based off Shana_Fujioka's "The Proximity Curse" prompt. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed it. xxx


	5. Digital Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is wednesday my dudes

This is probably the first time in Conan and Shinichi’s collective life that he’s running away from and not towards screams.

They die down after a few moments, only for a loud _honk_ and the sound of flapping wings to start them right up again. Conan pulls up the hem of his irritating, _irritating,_ yukata another inch (“But you’ll look so _cute,_ Conan-kun!”) as he races into the empty mansion, wooden sandals clacking against the stone steps. The door swings shut.

There’s a swan–an actual, living, swan–loose, on the Suzuki mansion grounds, in the midst of their annual garden party.

And that isn’t even the strangest thing about tonight.

Conan runs his fingers through his hair, and the locks stop three inches lower than normal. Grimacing, he takes the hairband around his wrist, but before he can pull his hair into a loose approximation of his cowlick, the strands slip from his fingers.

He groans in frustration as he tries to gather up his hair again, but finds only his familiar, _short_ locks.

Again.

His body has thus far refused to stick to a gender, unexpectedly obstructing every single one of his attempts to corner the thief. Every time he’s seen a flicker of white out of the corner of his eye, he’s been… well, a girl.

He stops short, frowning.

Every time he’d gotten close to KID, he’d transformed. Even that first time, at his place, when it had taken minutes of uncomfortable itching instead of mere seconds. It could all be a coincidence, but–

Conan snorts bitterly. The universe is rarely so lazy. He should’ve known: messy, humiliating, and difficult to deal with has the thief’s name written all over it.

Outside, he hears exclamations of _“but the statue, where did he take the statue?_ ’’ which pull him from his thoughts; he frowns. The gardens, while sprawling, aren’t full of hiding places. He casts a speculative look over the entrance hall, shrugs, and begins to walk. He may as well do his job.

The Lady of the Lake, a life-size glass sculpture of a swan with glowing emeralds for eyes and the prized attraction of the evening, had spontaneously decided to come to life in a puff of viridescent smoke and wreak havoc on the garden-party. Conan can still hear the howls of terrorised guests from inside the mansion.

Terrifying as the creature may be, Conan is more interested in figuring out how KID managed to poof a glass statue into non-existence, or, rather, where exactly it’s been poofed to. The logical assumption, he thinks as he takes in the empty hallway, would be _here_. He dismisses the stairs leading up - not at that speed, nor with cargo that fragile - which leaves the rooms closest to the lobby, and the ceiling. He’s 57% sure it’s in the ceiling, knowing the thief.

He reaches for the first doorknob, toggling on the night vision on his glasses when the door opens to pitch-black darkness. The room lights in shades of green, revealing a small parlour full of plush chairs and ornate tables. No water-bird in sight. Figures it wouldn’t be that easy.

He’s scanning the ceiling for any suspicious-looking screws when he feels a familiar tickle on his neck. A deep sigh heaves his shoulders and he reaches for the hairband around his wrist - again - before he’s interrupted - again - this time by the sound of footsteps.

He quickly ties off his hair, turns around, and is greeted by the sight of KID.

KID, covered in loose feathers with a missing cape and a hat that looks like it lost a fight with a mad cat. He’s standing in the low lighting of the entrance like it’s a showman’s spotlight, hands on both hips. He doesn’t move at all for a moment, but then takes a great, shuddering, breath.

“You would think,” he says, “that a bird that looks like the dove’s distant cousin, wouldn’t be _carnivorous._ ”

“...They aren’t,” is all Conan can think to say, voice pushed as low as he can remember it.

“That’s what they want you to think.”

He considers that for a moment, then changes the subject. “Where’s your cape?”

“I had to surrender it in exchange for my life.”

Conan waits for more, perplexed, but the thief doesn’t elaborate. He stares while KID dusts his sleeves off and lifts his head, before promptly tilting it to one side.

“You look… different,” he remarks, taking a step forward.

Ah. Shit. He’d nearly forgotten.

Conan tries at an unruffled laugh as his stomach swoops uncomfortably. “Ran insisted,” he says, pinching the silky cotton on his chest. He feels like a coiled spring, tempted to just–but no, it’s a stupid plan.

What he can see of KID’s mouth turns down in a frown, and the urge grows ever stronger. “On the extensions, too?” He pauses, then takes another step forward, leaning down, and Conan imagines he’s squinting under his monocle. “Do you have makeup on?”

Despite his best efforts, he recoils. “No,” he replies, almost instantly, before thinking about it and deciding, “Yes.”

He restrains himself from pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer irritation at himself, closing his eyes instead. There’s another pause, another step forward, before, “are you sick?”

“No— well,” he clears his throat, backtracking, “it’s. Sore! Maybe. My throat, I mean.” Why is he so bad at this?

KID is a bare metre away now, leaning closer. Close enough that he’s looking right under the brim of his hat, that he can see indigo translated to darkest green, can see his mouth open with the start of another question, and the last string of Conan’s restraint snaps. Stupid plan it is.

He takes five decisive steps backwards into the parlor, and slams the door shut.

His hand slides off the doorknob and he fumbles with the inside of his yukata, letting out a small _‘yes!’_ of victory when his fingers close around a worn bowtie. Dialing it to a setting he’s rarely used, he raises it to his mouth.

KID’s voice rises from the other side, flat and toneless and unreadable. “Sensing a little déjà-vu here, detective.”

He ignores him–clears his throat instead and thinks about his next words. The fumbling possibilities of what he could _say_ just aren’t lining up. They stumble in little spurts of _I’d like your help_ to _can I have my answer?_ or even _I’m sorry_ and eventually he just settles for,   

“I want to _talk_. Properly.”

And here, turning so his back falls against hardwood, he thinks he might actually be able to make it happen.

There’s a brief silence, then a light thump followed by the sound of sliding cloth. Conan lets himself drop to the floor with a sigh, his head against the door. He ponders what to say next, but before he can come up with something, KID speaks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Did I do something?”

Conan raises his eyebrows. “What? No— _no_. You didn’t do anything. I just—” He pauses, fingers twisting the satin at the edges of the bow tie, trying to find an explanation that isn’t _I’ve turned into a girl._

“I’ve turned into a girl.”  

.

.

Kaito blinks.

And blinks again.

He turns the words over in his head – slightly lifting it from the hardwood out of confusion – only to discover that yep, the Japanese language hasn’t suddenly changed overnight.

“Wh—” is all he manages to get out. “You mean, because of all the feelings? Because I don’t think that’s accurate.”

There’s a long pause, and he can just about make out a quiet _“fuck me”_ before Conan speaks again. “No, I literally switched genders. Or well, sexes.”

Kaito has so many questions.

“I don’t have answers,” Conan continues, reading his mind. “It’s kind of an on-and-off thing?  All I know is that it’s related to you.”

Kaito makes a face. “That’s not really my kind of magi—”

Oh.

_Oh._

“That bitch!” he exclaims, slamming a fist down into the ground beside him.

“What? Who?” Conan demands, but Kaito can’t find a reply, anger twisting into ugly knots. What kind of backwards punishment was this? What had that red-eyed (or rather, green-eyed) _she-demon_ even thought would happen? That turning Tantei-kun into a girl would somehow ruin him as a person? That Kaito would—

(might as well use the word)

 _—love_ him any less? She’d probably hopped on the first depraved spell she could think of in some crazy attempt to spite him, to drive an unforgiving wedge between them which—

Kaito swallows, fists uncurling as something uneasy creeps into his stomach. Remembers a locked door, a harsh rejection. Remembers curling hurt wringing his heart, of lying slumped over the bar counter.

It had so nearly worked.

“KID?”

“Did you get my message?”

That… comes out rougher than expected, and there’s a pause on the other side of the door. When Conan speaks up, though, his voice is low, void of its previous uncharacteristic hesitation and awkward deflections, determined to grasp the control neither of them has on this conversation.“I did. Both of them.”

Kaito’s shoulders sag. Right here, with the door to his back and his eyes on the locked entrance, he feels kind of… relieved. Somehow, with no one looking at him, no one expecting his mask, it becomes easier to let the poker face slip a little, to be a little more Kaito and a little less KID. “So?”

“So, what? What do you want from me?”

Frustration slowly builds a trembling tower at the back of his mind, and Kaito’s jaw works soundlessly for a moment before he can stand not to bite out his reply. “A response, is usually what one would expect.”

“And?” A mirror of his own irritation sneaks, icy, into Conan’s voice. “What could you _possibly_ expect me to say?” Then, as quickly as it had come, the venom in Conan’s voice disappears to make way for something tired. “No. Sorry. That’s not true. I...  I could use your help.

“I need to know who the red-eyed woman is. And if you can, I’d like you to help me reverse whatever you _—_ whatever’s happening to me. But as for your other message, I just….”

Kaito holds his breath, waiting.

“I don’t understand.”

The breath blows out of his lungs in an exasperated sigh. “If I need to start explaining subtle emotions to you, I may as well start calling you Hakuba. Are you seriously telling me you don’t get it, even now?”

“Of course not.” Conan has the gall to sound insulted. “The meaning is clear. The _intention_ is clear. What I don’t get is _why._ ”

Kaito feels his eyes widen, taken well and truly off guard.

“In the beginning,” the detective continues. “I thought you _—_ I was _sure_ you must have been messing around. I figured it was a momentary gag that’d pass. I ignored it.” The words are spilling from behind the door in a rush, as if that might make them hurt less. “But you’re not that kind of person. And it doesn’t make sense that you aren’t.

“What do you think I could possibly give you, as I am now? Why do you l— why do you feel the way you do?”

Never in his life has Kaito been so grateful to be on the wrong side of the door. He’s _reeling._

He’d been prepared, maybe, for rejection, though even that he thought was unlikely. Tantei-kun isn’t a good liar, and he doubts that he’d imagined the interest he’d seen in his eyes. He’d been prepared for an ‘it’s not the right time,’ because, fair. He still isn’t sure what Conan is involved in, even now.

But insecurity? That’s… unexpected, he thinks with a pleased grin. Maybe the other outcomes had been beyond his control. But this?

This, he can _work_ with.

“That’s it?”

“... ‘That’s it?’” echoes Conan, tone cutting with disbelief. Kaito backtracks.

“If you wanted to know why, all you had to do was ask, you know.” He raises a hand to his chin, unconsciously imitating the detective’s favourite pose. “Though, how about a quid pro quo? An answer, for an open door.”

There’s a pause, where Kaito’s convinced he’d won, before, “I don’t want to.”

Then, before he can even protest, he hears the lock and the doorknob shake. Kaito gets up from his position on the ground and takes few steps back, and he has to drop his head slightly to meet the detective’s gaze, digital green through the night vision of his glasses.

Conan’s standing there, looking never more different from his true self than he does now, long strands of hair pulled free from elastic and falling loosely around his cheeks, the ends just missing the collar of the blue-green yukata wrapped around him. Yet behind the lit lenses, his expression is breathtakingly soft.

“It should have started like this,” Conan says tiredly, voice a pitch higher and the bow tie held forgotten at his side. There’s a tinge of wariness in it that Kaito doesn’t doubt will remain there for a while longer, but here, where he can barely see three feet in front of him, Conan looks more relaxed than he’s ever been. “I guess I’m just… on edge. With, well,” he shrugs and opens his arms, “this.”

Kaito crouches, chin between his thumb and index finger. “Mmh. It’s fine, it’s just a spell. We can easily undo it.”

Conan squints at him from behind his glasses, dropping his head to one side. “What?” he scoffs. “You can just say what happened outright, you know. I’m not going to get mad.”

Kaito frowns, confused. “I just did? It’s not that deep, really. Just a spell.”

“Oh,” he blinks. “Well if it’s _just_ a spell— really, I should have known—”

“—Is that sarcastic? I feel like that was sarcastic.”

“No,” says Conan.

They stare at each other.

“Okay…” Kaito says slowly, drawing out the last syllable for six more seconds than is acceptable or necessary. “So, I’m thinking I should just take care of that part myself.”

“How? You’re going to talk to a witch?”

“Well, it would be compromising to tell a detective that I might kill a witch so, yeah. I’m going to talk to a witch.”

“KID,” he sighs, rubbing his temple. “Look - I appreciate that you want to help, but I need you to be serious about this.”

“I _am_ serious!” Kaito says seriously, with seriousness. “I probably won’t kill her.”

Conan rolls his eyes, but he lets it go. “Adler?”

“Who?”

“The red-eyed woman.”

“Right, Koizumi _—_ wait, have you been calling her Adler this entire time in your head?”

He purses his lips. “Just answer me. Who is she?”

“I literally just—” he’s cut off by a piercing scream, followed by a low _honk_ that startles him awake. He’s suddenly conscious of his surroundings, of where he is and why he’s here and the glass swan statue in the ceiling.  “Okay, you know what, we can talk about this some other time. But I need to know— do you like me back?”

Even in the dim light, he can see red filling Conan’s cheeks. “What?”

“Do you like me back,” he repeats, staring him dead in the eyes. Outside, someone cries out a desperate prayer to God. “Ignore that,” he insists, equally desperate. If he doesn’t get a clear answer now, he’s pretty sure he’ll die from insomnia by the next time they meet.

Conan blinks at him twice, lips parted and hands clenching and unclenching in succession. Kaito’s sure he’ll never forget this next moment, because in this next moment, Conan squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and says,

“Yes.”

And it’s not his voice, or nearly his face, and they’re in the dark and there are screams in the background, feathers in his hair and claw marks on his back, but.

“All right,” he says, feeling a grin tugging the corners of his mouth, and he thinks they might just never come down if he lets it happen.

Conan stares back. “All right,” he repeats simply.

It’s still perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it, my guys, after nearly half a year, to the _communication_  
>  Thanks everyone who's reading this, I hope the wait was worth it <3
> 
> -Calc


	6. Backlit White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> productivity! (ﾉ｡･ω･｡)ﾉ
> 
> Real quick, for the ppl reading this on PC, it'd be best to do so on windowed mode bc they text a l o t. 
> 
> Sinon, i hope you enjoy this cute chappie xoxo.

_A_ spell _, really?_

_ffs u turned into a little boy why won’t you believe me_

_I’ve met Haibara._

_fair_

_bUT U MET KOIZUMI TOO_

_(.-.)_

_Speaking of which, did you talk to her?_

_No >:( _

_she disappeared on me_

_u know, like a witch would_

_because she is one_

_Sure._

_She disappeared? Isn’t that a cause for concern???_

_nah she does this every eight weeks or so_

_for attention_

_or to like, kill woodland creatures idk_

_the important thing is im not gonna see her unless she wants me to_

_or she comes back to school_

_we have a test tuesday she’ll prolly be there_

_Tuesday?? That’s almost a week from now_

_yep_

_it be like that_

_in the meantime_

_do you_

_you know_

_want to hang out sometime?_

 

Kaito jumps as his phone, instead of vibrating, rings, screen lighting up with a picture of the Lady of the Lake under moonlight—amazing how much a good associated memory can redeem a demon-bird—along with its accompanying contact name: _tantei-kun Ｏ(≧∇≦)Ｏ._

“Is this a date,” the voice on the other end asks before he can even say hello.

“I’m doing great, thanks, tantei-kun,” he says cheerfully, as a distraction, because in all their grand total of six and a half days texting, not once have they attempted a phone call, and he’s more than a little thrown.

It’s pitifully weak by his standards, and Conan knows it, because he immediately jumps to needle him like the vicious predator he is. “So it’s not? Mmh, shame, I would have said yes.”

Kaito blinks. “Really?” he asks, and winces at his high-pitched voice. He clears his throat. “I mean, yes. I was. Asking you.” Then, a beat too late, “On a date.”

“Thanks for the clarity,” Conan laughs, and Kaito can’t help but smile sheepishly at the sound.

He’d noticed, the shift in Tantei’s behavior, the change in their interactions. The constant back-and-forth—the _availability_ _—_ has made them both less formal, more comfortable with each other. More than once, Kaito catches himself grinning at the screen when the detective—subconsciously—imitates his own texting habits, and downright laughed out loud in class the first time Conan had sent him a kaomoji.

“Is... Saturday okay?” Kaito asks, fiddling with his phone strap as he eyes the white calendar on the wall.

“Sure,” Conan hums. Kaito pumps his fist in victory, mouthing a silent _yes!_ to the empty room, when he adds, “let’s not _—_ Make sure you don’t, um, end up at a couples’ event with a little boy in tow.”

“You mean, a little girl.”

“That makes it worse,” Conan sighs.

“Don’t worry,” he assures him, “people would probably see us as siblings instead of whatever the hell you just implied.”

He’s met with a long groan. “Is that supposed to make it better?”

“Look,” Kaito replies, gaze fixed on the ceiling, “I don’t care what they think, I don’t care that you’re small or that you’re a girl. I just want to go on a date with you.”

There’s a long silence before Conan breathes out quietly into the line. “That makes sense,” is all he says, but his voice nudges Kaito’s heart to beat a little faster, all rueful and fond in one.

He’s still smiling when Conan clears his throat, but it promptly slips right off his face when he follows up with, “let’s go skating.”

“With… rollers?”

“No, I mean at an indoor ice rink,” he says, confirming Kaito’s greatest fears. “There’s one near the mall.”

Kaito’s about to refuse _—_ surely, _surely_ there is a better date activity he can persuade Conan into _—_ when the detective continues, in a small voice.

“I mean… It’s not really the season, so. It’ll probably be just us.”

“Yeah, sounds cool.” The words leave his mouth before he can process them and Kaito lifts his knees to bang his forehead repeatedly into them. He’s weak. So, so weak. “Text me the address and I’ll meet you there at nine?”

“That works,” Conan says, and he can tell he’s smiling. “It’s a date.”

The phone clicks as his detective hangs up, and Kaito stares at the screen for half a minute before flopping back into bed and shoving a pillow over his red face, not bothering to hold back the loud groan escaping his lips.

.

.

_Send me some of your math problems, my brain is going numb_

_lol what was on ur syllabus today_

_The 8x table._

_Time is of the essence._

_hold on nerd_

_im in my own situation right now_

_What’s going on?_

_hakuba just told me to move my butt cuz this is his spot so now i have to sit here forever_

_Ha._

_Well, you know what they say_

“ _You make your own karma_ ,” Haibara reads out loud from over his shoulder, and Conan starts.

He flushes and slams the phone face down on his desk, narrowly missing his packed lunchbox. Haibara raises an eyebrow.

“You discuss philosophy with Kaitou KID during your lunch break now?”

“Yep,” he replies quickly, clicking the lock button so the display reading KID’s previous message goes black. “Philosophy.”

Haibara pulls a chair out of the desk next to his with practised ease, moving her lunchbox next to his. “You’ve been on your phone a lot lately,” she observes, tilting her head at him.

Conan sinks further into his seat. “So?”

“Smiling more, too. There’s… a certain glow to you.”

He scrunches his nose, touching his cheeks self-consciously.

“I don’t like it,” she finishes, nose wrinkled and lip curling in disgust.

“You don’t like the fact that I’m… smiling?”  

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Haibara humphs, setting her crossed arms on the desk. “I’m suspicious of the cause _._ ” She taps a nail on the back of his phone.

Conan frowns, feeling a tad defensive. “He’s helping me with the whole… girl predicament.”

She raises her chin. “The way I see it, he’s the _cause_ of your predicament.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“So you landed yourself in this mess just by knowing him?”

He grits his teeth. “You’re being purposefully obtuse.”

She narrows her eyes. “Or, you’re just being stubborn. What did he say was the cause of your transformations again?”

A smirk stretches the corner of her lips when Conan drops his gaze, mumbling, “a spell.”

“A spell,” she repeats. “It is bizarre that I should have to explain this to you, but it sounds like he’s lying.”

“I don’t begrudge him protecting anything that could reveal his identity.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Haibara’s jaw drops, her eyes widening in shock and something like outrage. “You don’t know who he is?”

Conan stares at her. “Why would I know who he is?”

“Excuse me?” Her nostrils flare, and she jabs once more at the phone still lying on his desk. “Maybe because he’s sending you cheesy love notes during homeroom? Or because not one hour has passed today where you didn’t check your phone? Maybe you should know because you seem to think the two of you are _dating_?”

“We _are_ dating,” he protests, not parsing the words until they come out of his mouth.

“Kudo-kun,” she says, her voice low and cold. “Not a month ago he was spying on you through the window. I would have thought,” she presses on before Conan can make a sound, “that you’d learn to be a little more careful with romance, especially in light of your past.”

The words sink into his skin like sharp hailstones, and his own retort dies in his throat. “Low blow, Haibara,” he whispers, consonants flicking off his tongue like daggers.

She presses her lips together, eyes steady on his. “I’m just saying. You’re basically giving him all the cards and asking to be fooled. It doesn’t add up. It looks like, I don’t know, he’s planning something.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“How should I know? If we’d always waited to figure out what we were running from, we’d be long dead.”

The last string of his patience snaps. Conan pushes back from the desk, snatching his phone and lunch off the table. “If you don’t know,” he says quietly, ever so calm, “shut up.”

He heads outside to eat under the shade of a tree, taking slow, cooling breaths as his anger simmers in his stomach. But it doesn’t matter how quiet it is, nor how much irritation he breathes out, because he can’t look at the patterned cloth without thinking of Ran’s quiet, resigned voice coming through the tinny speaker of his phone, and every mouthful clogs his throat like he’s swallowing ash.

.

.

_one good thing about the witch being mia is that i don’t have to fear for my life in my own bathtub_

_I’m glad_

_?? whats wrong_

_Why would anything be wrong_

_normal ppl would ask for clarification after reading a text like that_

_u of all ppl would_

_Right_

_Why do you fear for your life in your bathtub_

_nuh-uh u missed ur chance now u have to tell me whats wrong_

_It’s nothing, really. I just had an unpleasant conversation with someone and it kind of. Stuck._

_i have those too sometimes_

_what was it about_

_You._

_im teetering between offering advice without prying and bullying u into telling me every word of this conversation_

_...try the first one?_

_ok_

_i advise u to tell me every word of this conversation_

_Rejected._

_Try again_

_):_

_seriously did u talk shit abt me_

_No._

_Not me._

_woah ok_

_did u at least defend my honor_

_we are dating after all its the new rule_

_?? tantei?_

_We are, aren’t we?_

_duh_

_it was the coolest get-together ever hello i was covered in feathers and there was a swan don’t tell me u forgot_

_She said that we can’t be serious about each other since i don’t even know who you are,_

_and that you’re lying to me._

_Do you know how difficult it is to refute that when all you’ve given me as an explanation is a magic spell that a witch cast upon me_

_Im serious!!_

_if i was lying dont u think i would have come up with something better???_

_and you do know me_

_you know a lot more of me than._

_anyone actually_

_But that’s not it is it?_

_If you wanted,_

_You could just toss my number and never seek me out again and. That would be the end of it._

_yeah til u show up at my next heist and pattern me with soccer balls_

_KID, i’m serious_

_and so am i_

_dont think i dont know u could track me down_

_wouldnt even have to try u could just be all ‘hakuba-niisan, who was it that replaced a box of your valentines day chocolates with artfully carved bars of soap’_

_KID._

_but that would leave a bad taste in ur mouth yea i know_

_how bout this:_

_i’ll give u one (1) hint abt my identity and u have til saturday to figure it out_

_That’s_

_Actually interesting_

_right???_

_and guess what_

_the penalty for a wrong answer is….. ding ding u buy ice cream + i tell u anyway_

_bc ur_

_my_

_boyfriend_

_fine. What’s the clue?_

_One of my past disguises was the true me. Name, face, all of it._

_Guess which one._

_._

_._

“Hey,” Kaito throws casually as he moves to play the next episode of _Persona 4._ “You talked to Akako lately?”

Aoko shifts under the white plaid they’re sharing, stifling back a yawn. Her face is lit by the screen of her phone as she types out a reply to a message that had pinged during the show. “Akako? She texted me a couple of days ago to tell me she was going to be out of the city for a while. Why?”

“What?” Kaito turns around, holding a hand out. “Show me.”

Aoko matches his frown, keeping her phone out of reach. “ _Why_?”

“Just! show me!” He huffs, leaping forward to grab it, only to get stopped by a hand mashing against his nose. “ _Ow,_ seriously,” he hisses over her high-pitched squeaks, trying to manoeuvre out of her grip, his eyes still fixed on her phone.

“Tell Aoko why!” Aoko shoves a foot against his chest to keep him back, her phone still clutched in her protective fingers.

The first notes of the opening ring out as he gives the blanket a sharp pull, tugging her off-balance, and she seems to notice the screen for the first time.

“Ah!” She yells, phone dropping forgotten onto the floor. “You made us miss the intro scene, Bakaito!”

Kaito ignores her as he leans down to grab the phone. His thumb moves by rote to key in her passcode, and the screen unlocks to reveal her messaging app. He quickly swipes out of her conversation with Keiko, scrolling down to find Akako’s name, and the client opens to reveal more than a full paragraph of writing.

_Nakamori-san,_

_Due to some recent developments in a plot slowly unfurling in our beloved city, certain powers have advised me that it would be best to take a temporary leave of absence. I am thus going to be missing a week’s worth of classes, but, as always, I will be contactable on this number. I do not wish to neglect my responsibilities nor my score in the upcoming Chemistry quiz on Tuesday, so I would dearly appreciate you keeping me up to date on important notes in the meantime. You have my word that I will compensate you in some manner._

_Incidentally, this number can only be contacted by you, so I would further appreciate that you do not ask any of our classmates (read: Kuroba-kun) to pass them along instead._

_All the best,_

_Koizumi Akako_

Kaito stares blankly at the screen until the display dims. “What the shit?”

“Yeah,” Aoko simply replies, fumbling with a bag of Haribos. “That’s just how she texts.”

He reads it again, eyebrows raised. Underneath, Aoko had answered with a single line— _（＾Ｏ＾☆♪  you can count on me!_ —followed by various photo attachments of notes over the past few days.

“She left the city,” he processes, throwing the phone back on his friend’s lap with an irritated sigh. “What a goddamn coward. She should’ve stayed and faced my wrath like a woman.”

Aoko scoffs. “What could she possibly have done to earn your _wrath_?”

“She messed with my man!”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

The theme playing from the TV abruptly cuts off with a sharp jab of Aoko’s finger on the button. Her head spins around and her eyes bore into his and Kaito’s brain goes blank with the speed of any man who knows he’s cornered himself.

“Your _what,_ Kaito?”

Well, he’s already dug his grave. He straightens his spine and, taking painstaking care to clearly pronounce every syllable, he says, “my boyfriend.”

“You have a—” She puts a hand on her chest, baffled. “When were you going to _tell_ me?”

The answer is, of course, something along the lines of _whenever he comes out of hiding for whatever reason,_ but since that is _definitely_ the wrong answer, he settles for, “It’s new.”

Aoko flumps back onto the couch next to him, resting her head against his arm propped up on the back of the couch. “Did Akako try to seduce him?” she asks tentatively.

He coughs out a surprised laugh. “Actually, no. Wow. I didn’t even think of that. Horrible mental image.”

He feigns a shudder and she pats him apologetically on the shoulder. “She actually sped up the get-together, I guess. In her own…” He gestures vaguely with a grimace, “messed up way. I mean, I’m kind of, not exactly grateful, but something close. But at the same time, it was a really shitty thing to do. He already had a lot to deal with and she just went and… we almost broke up!” he exclaims, the indignation he felt upon putting the pieces together resurging.

Aoko nods. “I don’t understand a thing of what you’re saying.”

“You know, like trial by fire sort of thing! We had to deal with all the emotions all at once rather than over a while like a, well, normal relationship, and it could have easily screwed us over as much as it helped.”

“Is it Hakuba?” she suddenly asks.

“Wh—” he chokes out, before clearing his throat. “Why does _everyone_ think— it’s not Hakuba!”

“Woah, ok, no need to yell.” She raises her hands placatingly.  “It’s just, with all this talk of weird, difficult emotions—”

Kaito sulks, sinking in his seat and crossing his arms. “I’m done talking about this. Play the episode.”

Tilting her head, she scrunches her nose. “You know, Aoko came here to study with you. We should really…”

He groans loudly, looking up at the ceiling, “yeah, you’re right.”

There’s a pause where they simply look at each other, opening graphics frozen on the screen.

She plays the episode.

.

.

_Are you the blonde maid you disguised yourself as in the iron tanuki case?_

_i am, in fact, neither blonde nor a woman nor a maid_

_Mmh_

_I suppose you were having way too much fun for it to just be your everyday._

_Katsuki Doito, then?_

_who the fuck is katsuki doito_

_so, no._

_okay_

_are you secretly Genta_

_ugh dont even his disguise was such a pain in the ass_

_You're the one who took that as a challenge_

_Literally no one dared you to do that_

_old man publically decided to have only kids on the scene because he was so convinced he’d found my weak spot excuse me??????_

_thats a challenge_

_i still cannot believe you tased me_

_ahsjsjsjh im sorry that was a dick move_

_if it helps i tampered with the taser beforehand_

_id rather u didnt get knocked out than. u kno_

_I figured, but still_

_ur label on my back had me trying to dodge the police for three (3) whole hours so i guess we’re even_

_:)_

.

.

Conan makes a neat line through another name in his notebook, legs swinging from where he sits at Occhan’s desk. So late in the night, the office is silent save for the quiet _scritch_ of his pen.

Sighing, he leans his cheek on his knuckles as he prepares to cast his mind back to his next memory of KID, when there’s a quiet tap on the window. Startled, he glances behind him, and frowns.

There’s a familiar dove waiting on the windowsill.

With a raised eyebrow, he slides it open, letting the snowy bird bob inside. He feels around one of her feet, and the dove sticks it out obligingly, as though used to the treatment. Her leg is free of any equipment or letter.

“What are _you_ doing here,” he whispers as she flutters to land on the wooden surface of the desk, shaking out her feathers. Once there, she ignores his question and simply tucks in her neck and feet, eyelids sliding shut.

Conan huffs, flopping back into the chair and resting his head and arms on the desk to bring the bird to his eye-level. In the moon’s dim silver, she almost seems like her own little source of light, glowing softly. “I thought you were kind of like him, but you’re really just twice as obnoxious, aren’t you?” He reaches out to draw a single knuckle down her back, the puffed up feathers soft against his skin. “And you smell like him, too,” he adds, nose scrunching. “Does he bathe you all in lavender flowers or something?”

She doesn’t reply, and he stares at her until his eyes close. The scent drifts idly through his mind until it gently tugs open a memory, of careful hands holding him still and lifting a warm weight from his hood.

(‘ _I was worried.’)_

His eyelids fly open, and once again he’s staring at the dove, sleeping next to his open notebook. “Don’t tell me...”

_(I’m you, but cooler!)_

Reaching for his pen, he crosses out every single name but one.

( _How unoriginal.)_

Conan laughs—a short laugh, more disbelieving than amused—as he stares at the quick ink strokes on the page, feeling the corners of his mouth lift in a smile, finally in on the joke.

 _(What’s so funny_ now _?)_

He rubs tiny circles with the pad of his finger on the dove’s head, smirking at her. “You made for a good distraction, didn’t you?”

Heart-chan’s eyes open for a brief moment—just long enough for her to let out a quiet _coo_ —before she goes straight back to sleep.

.

.

_Your dove is here_

_I thought you should know_

_omg seriously_

_i did not send her i swear_

_heart-chan tends to do whatever she wants_

_guess she has a crush on u or smth_

_if she asks u for food dont give her any she’s not hungry she’s lying_

_why are you still up btw?? go to sleep soon ok_

_i need u at peak performance on the ice tomorrow_

_? Why?_

_u’ll see_

_intriguing_

_ & I was actually about to go to bed _

_nice_

_good night tantei_

_Good night, Kaito._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akako texting like she's the narrator of the powerpuff girls but in the 14th century never fails to crack me UP, yo. Calculatrice came up with it and i just. have you ever read something so fucking _funny_ you bypass laughing entirely and immediately begin to cry? 
> 
> anyway, YAY, backlit white!!! it's a transition chapter, it's cosy, it's relaxed, it's full of pure feels and Haibara. This was the easiest motherfuckn chapter to write ex-aequo with pale violet, wrapped up in only two nights (as opposed to, like, four months for chap5) and it made us both so happy to write. We're slowly approaching the end of this fic but before that, a D a t e, hoho. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading it & thank you all for the great comments!!! y'all are cool people.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this with HIT was. An _experience._ Super excited for this story!
> 
> As usual, please don't hesitate to leave a kudo or comment if you liked it, or if you spotted something off. Thanks for reading :D
> 
> \- Calculatrice
> 
> (based on a prompt by Shana_Fujioka)


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